LITMIR.BIZ

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also need a decent caretaker. Look at the grounds, you two.” Charlotte lifted both slender arms. “They’re a wreck!”

      “Well, that’s as much your fault as ours,” Paige interjected calmly, sloshing fizzy diet soda over the ice in her glass. She paused to take a dainty drink. “With all of us working, Isabella and me locally, and you out-of-state, Charlotte, none of us has time to cut grass. Frankly, I think we should just sell the plantation and be done with it.”

      “Over my dead body!” Charlotte said, and Brett frowned. From what he could tell, if the sisters would just agree to sell their money-absorbing ancestral home, then all of his and Stephen Sterling’s problems would be solved.

      “Father would never have wanted us to sell Camellia Lane,” Isabella concurred solemnly, to Brett’s disappointment. “Not if we could possibly avoid it.”

      “Oh, we’ll avoid it all right, because there is no way I’m going to allow Camellia Lane to be sold,” Charlotte told her sisters flatly.

      “Then how, pray tell, are we going to come up with the fifty thousand dollars we owe the bank?” Paige retorted.

      Fifty thousand! Brett thought. What kind of trouble were these ladies in?

      “We don’t have that kind of money,” Paige continued. “Nor are we liable to get it from Isabella’s work as a librarian, mine as a cosmetics sales rep, or your work as a magazine writer, Charlotte.”

      “Face it,” Isabella said, looking sadder than Brett had yet seen her, “we all love our work and adore this place, but we can’t afford to keep up Camellia Lane on our salaries, even with two of us living here full-time.”

      “Look, I feel bad that my work is in New York,” Charlotte said, looking at her sisters apologetically. “I know I haven’t been doing my share, in the physical sense, the last ten years. But I plan to make that up to you both by getting the fifty thousand we need.”

      “Oh, really?” Paige pulled a package of rolls out of the freezer and set them on the counter to defrost. “And how are you going to do that? By selling off one or both of us to white slavers?” Paige shot back.

      Catfight! Brett thought.

      Charlotte glared at Paige. “I am going to do an exposé on Stephen Sterling,” Charlotte announced, moving closer to the blue, beige and white floral priscilla curtains. “And when I do, the magazine has agreed to pay me a bonus of fifty thousand dollars. Voilèa! All our problems will be solved.”

      No wonder she wanted to go all out to find Sterling, Brett thought. The money from the article would allow her to save her beloved Camellia Lane.

      “Now back to our situation with that worthless caretaker you hired,” Charlotte continued autocratically.

      Brett decided this was his cue. He bounded up the back steps, rapped on the kitchen door and stepped inside, before Charlotte had the chance to talk the other two into kicking him off the property.

      “Hi,” he said cheerfully, stepping inside.

      He had been in the spacious plantation kitchen many times, but tonight the cozy square room seemed filled with life. Charlotte especially seemed right at home.

      “Oh, hello, Brett! You’re just in time,” Isabella said, looking pleased to see him. She moved gracefully across the terra-cotta tile floor and sent him a welcoming smile. “Dinner is almost ready.”

      “What do you mean dinner is almost ready?” Charlotte asked suspiciously. She glared at Brett, then her sisters.

      “Brett eats dinner with us every evening,” Isabella said, using a sponge to wipe a splatter from the beige ceramic tile above the stove.

      “Didn’t we tell you?” Paige asked innocently as she began to unload the dishwasher.

      “No,” Charlotte said, still looking at both her sisters meaningfully. “You didn’t.”

      “Want me to set the table as usual?” Brett asked. If he didn’t want to be kicked out by Miss Charlotte, he knew he’d better make himself useful.

      “Please.” Isabella smiled.

      “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Charlotte said slowly. She looked at both her sisters pointedly. “We have pressing financial matters to discuss. I was hoping we could do it over dinner.”

      “Brett knows we’re having some problems on that score,” Isabella said delicately.

      “What?” Charlotte did a double take.

      “I had to tell him,” she explained with an airy wave of her hand. “So he’d understand why there was no salary with the job.”

      Charlotte glanced at her watch and frowned. She appeared deep in thought. “How long before the chicken is done, Isabella?”

      Isabella shrugged. “Another thirty minutes.”

      “If you all will excuse me, I’ve got some work to do in the library,” Charlotte said. She pivoted on her heel and brushed past Brett without a word.

      What was she up to now? he wondered, drinking in the lilac fragrance of her perfume. And did it have anything to do with Stephen Sterling?

      Paige hurried after her sister. Brett heard them murmuring in apparent disagreement, and then Charlotte saying, “I don’t care if he is a funny and charming dinner companion or how big a help he is in the kitchen! I’m telling you, there’s something about that man that just isn’t right!”

      Her instincts were right on target about that, Brett thought, as he continued to set the table while Isabella looked for something in the pantry. He wasn’t here to study farming or complete a dissertation. He was here for one reason and one reason only—to prevent Charlotte from following through on her mission to unmask Stephen Sterling.

      * * *

      HER DISCUSSION with Paige finished, Charlotte hurried toward the library. It was six o’clock. Dunn’s law office was closing down for the day. If she wanted to make a call, she’d have to do it now.

      She went swiftly to her desk, sat down and picked up the phone. “Marcie Shackleford, please.”

      Seconds later, a melodious voice came on the phone. “Marcie Shackleford.”

      “Hi. This is Charlotte Langston—”

      “The nosy reporter who tried to break into the firm’s computer?”

      “I see you remember me,” Charlotte said carefully.

      “I certainly do. And I have no intention of talking to you!” Marcie Shackleford retorted.

      “Wait—” Charlotte said. But it was too late. Marcie had already hung up.

      Scowling, Charlotte replaced the antique black-and-gold phone in its cradle and saw Brett Forrest hovering just inside the library door. She hated not getting what she wanted…especially when someone was there to see her fail. Although Brett was doing his best to pretend he hadn’t overheard anything of importance.

      And again, it hit her like gangbusters. Something about him just wasn’t right. He was too handsome, too sexy, too stealthy and too nosy.

      In fact, he reminded her of herself. Was it really possible that he was another reporter, tracking her because he wanted to steal her story? And if that was the case, how was she going to get him to back off? Charlotte sensed he was every inch as tenacious as she was.

      Brett stayed where he was, looking impossibly at home among the polished black walnut doors. His boldly assessing glance covered the wide floor-to-ceiling bookcases that held thousands of her father’s books on the Civil War. It drifted across the plush emerald green sofa, matching side chairs and slightly darker green carpet, before moving lazily to the huge black walnut desk and matching typewriter stand. Behind that was a twelve-rung ladder used to gather books from the

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